


Artless

by Venitio (AisukuriMuStudio)



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Mindless Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:36:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AisukuriMuStudio/pseuds/Venitio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laundry day brings out Kratos' more introspective, poetic side. Like he didn't already have enough of that. Oyakoish Kranna.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artless

There was something so artless about her – the loose quality of her gestures, for instance. And her laugh too, it was there. A helplessness; an innocence despite her deep, black views into the hearts of ambitious men. And the way she held her lips: like everything passing under the watch of her observant eye was amusing. How did she do it? How did she make her human self, as stable as a soap bubble, so warm, an epitome of strength? Kratos rested his chin in his hand, silently viewing the complex orchestra of life that was laundry day at the inn – with Lloyd to shove baskets of dry clothes for him to fold across the floor, smiling widely at being able to help his mama with the "warsh"; and he sighed. Fragile. Both of them. Breakable. And his.

"For the love Kratos, get moving over there."

His hands went to work automatically, coupling a pair of socks, but his mind stayed luxuriously adrift. He smiled at her, gently, and she beamed back.  _That too. How is she always_ _ **happy**_ _? It's ridiculous, that's what it is._  Kratos had spent years of his existence fine tuning his language, his ability to pinpoint anything with the appropriate word; the fluidity of his sentences – so how come his wife and little boy were so annoyingly immune? He crumpled the folded socks, dropping them into the designated basket, before going to work again. Instead, those two dearest to him represented themselves in colors…he had no idea why, but his mind was at its ease when in the warm enclosure of the family nest, and he didn't argue with it.

Imperceptibly, Kratos closed his eyes and thought of Anna…yellow, that's what she was. Bright, vibrant yellow – streaked with brown (her eyes, perhaps?) and red. Texture also came to mind – he saw the rough threads of her apron, the smooth cotton of her dowdy dress, too big to fit her, between his fingers; and he  _felt_ , more than anything, the warm weight of her head when it dropped against his chest in exhausted slumber.

"You didn't shut down on me in my hour of need, didja?" a voice teased gently. His eyes flicked open.

She was tracing the inside of his hand, looking at him playfully. Kratos firmly believed that Anna was prettiest when she smirked – that made her, now, maddeningly lovely. He held up two helpless hands (equally playful) and looked at her with wide, innocent eyes. "Heaven forbid I abandon my wife on so dangerous a day as this."

"You're so full of it," she replied, shoving his arm.

Lloyd was having a ball in the pile of dirty socks, tossing them like confetti. He looked up and smiled at his father the same moment Anna did.

"Explain something to me," he began, holding each of those artless fingers in his. "How is it you escape description? I've never understood it and I figure you'd be the best one to explain it to me."

"Beg pardon?" Her voice was trilling, yet soft. "Let the mortal think for a sec – you want a description? Of what, me?"

"If it's not too much trouble," he replied with a shrug.

"I'm not exactly hard to put to words Kratos." That laugh again. "Mother hen? Yes. Obnoxious at times – don't do that little smirky thing, it's annoying – definitely. Loud and over-protective, and pinpoint perfect in my taste in men, if I do say so myself. And I bake a mean batch of cookies."

"Inadequate."

She huffed before he chuckled and continued: "I was just pondering how…useless words are. Even when coming from my wife herself, your description of your own person doesn't do justice."

"Does laundry day always make you this poetic?" she asked with a blink.

He shrugged again, sighing lightly, and then felt a hand tip up his chin.

"My boy," was all she said, smiling with a small quirk at the edge of her mouth – her lips pressed against his cheek for a moment before she adjourned to the wash basin, plunging in like it was her greatest challenge and most especial pleasure.

Kiss was another word that didn't do it justice. No no – kiss was too simple, implying only a meeting of lips…which was, essentially, what their kisses consisted of, but that wasn't all, Kratos decided. When they kissed, they  _met_. Breakable, fragile, his family. His wife. Hunched over the tub, sleeves tugged up, half-soaked, and  _human_. Warm, human…his.


End file.
